


Shards

by Kit_SummerIsle



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: AU, Body Modification, Empurata, FWP, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, empurata!Drift
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>empurata!Drift drabbles from tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The empurata!Drift idea comes from a tumblr discussion with an anon, adhesivesandscrap and 4thelurvofnerds. I took the idea and ran with it - since I have no time presently to write real, lengthy fics they became drabbles. Then I decided to dump the drabbles - and any that may still come - here. It probably never will be a real, chaptered fic, but the drabbles are connected loosely and sort of form a story.
> 
> It's obviously an AU, so you've been warned. :-)

Wing’s optics swept over the desert plains once more. His patrol was nearly done and he was looking forward to returning to New Crystal City, wash off the dust of the desert and have a recharge. By Primus, he was tired. Between the extra shifts Dai Atlas saddled him with and his own tendency to go off course and discover things on his own he was nearly exhausted. There was nothing around here anyway, barely once in a millennia had somemech landed on their nice, out of the usual space-routes planet. Speak of Unicron and… a speck of something, a glint of metal where should only be rocks drew his optics just as he was about to turn back and go home.

Instead he sent the ‘ _found something_ ’ ping back and veered off course to check out what the metal was. From closer up it appeared to be a small escape pod from a larger ship… and some frames around with plenty of spilled energon staining the rocks. Wing sped up and landed roughly by the carnage to see if there were any survivors he could help. Three of the frames were already grey, a fourth on the side, buried half under a huge rock was graying out as he landed. Wing’s cursory inspection revealed their faction symbols and signs of a fight and the young jet scowled a little. Purple. That meant Decepticons. True, the Knights took no sides in the conflict, but privately they did have an opinion of the warring sides.

There! A glint of black and white appeared as he circled the escape pod that wasn’t scrap metal. Especially with the line of dripped energon he obviously lost as he crawled away from the fight. The dark, mangled frame lay crumpled on the ground a little farther and Wing was by his side in a nanoklik. Sprawled ungainly on his front, the mech looked awfully damaged, with signs of a crash – he must have been the one in the escape pod then – and weapons’ discharge marks all over. The young jet cringed a little as he turned the limp frame to see his front… and shuddered in shock and revulsion when he succeeded.

There was no face to see. Just a mangled, ugly, rough cube-like thing with a shattered, single optic within it. The dark plate was something Wing wouldn’t stick on a cleaning drone, much less on a mech and the extensive damage didn’t help his looks either. The left side was half melted off, giving it a nearly organic-looking, gnarled edge, the top was completely broken off and dangling by a few wires… Wing realized that he was fighting nausea looking at the mech. Who would create a mech like this? Why? With no mouth even… how did he refuel? Speak?

“Skrshhht!”

Wing nearly jumped into the air in sudden fright. The hissing-croaking-skreetching noise came from somewhere the mangled mech’s chest part and it frightened him badly. A broken arm jerked together with the sound and something weakly hit Wing’s ankle. 

“Primus!”

The arm ended in what looked like… pincers? Claws? Chela? Wing had to draw from organic words, for the things were definitely not Cybertronian digits, not even pointed, clawed digits that some mechs sported. How on Cybertron did this mech hold weapons.. or other things? He had to fight down another wave of revulsion to touch the mech to patch the most serious energon leaks, but Wing immediately felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t feel that way, the mech obviously was seriously handicapped by his form even when not mangled by a crash or shot down by Decepticons. He would deserve sympathy and care, not revulsion.

He called for pickup. Maybe Dai Atlas… or even Redline could tell him more about such strangely framed Cybertronians… for Wing has never heard of any such.


	2. Chapter 2

“You are not serious.”

Wing stared at Dai Atlas with wings so high and tense, they almost hurt.

“You can’t be serious. Who would make THIS as a punishment? It’s cruelty! It’s…”

He had no words to describe what he felt at what he has just learnt. That public authorities would just take a mech who committed no crime and casually mutilate him in such a cruel way? It was inconceivable. How could a society like this even work? Why wouldn’t mechs protest against such an abominable practice?

“It is true, Wing. Functionalist would perform this… empurata, they called it, on mechs without a second thought. I’ve seen it done myself back then.”

The disgust was obvious even in Dai Atlas’s more schooled wings and face. They stood to the side while Redline worked on their… guest and Wing has just learned the ugly truth about the strange visage of the mech.

“B-but… but… how could he function like this???”

“It was meant to make the victims’ functioning a Pit, Wing. Functionalists weren’t… compassionate. They believed it justice to make, whom they thought guilty, suffer.”

Wing’s wings nearly vibrated with his distress. His earlier revulsion at seeing the ugly helm was gone and now he alternately felt a burning fury for the ones capable of doing it with a mech – and deep compassion for their victim who was right now being rebuilt by the Knights’ capable medic, Redline. 

“It wasn’t just disfigurement, Wing.” – the medic spoke up, joining their conversation – “They tampered with his processor too. I had to remove several nasty protocols that made him nearly a slave to their whims. It was another thing they did. Take a mech who usually did nothing else just question something or protest an injustice – turn him into a monster shunned by his former friends – and make him a tool for them to use against mechs like him. Nasty practice. The Decepticons are wrong in a whole number of things, but I give them one good mark for destroying this abomination.”

“But… then.. it happened to him before the war, right? Why wasn’t he fixed?”

“In a war neither side probably had the resources… or the will. He could fight like this and that was probably more than enough for the Decepticons.”

Wing had no more words. He knew he was sheltered by growing up in New Crystal City, but it has never been so much obvious. He watched mutely as the ugly, mangled plates were removed and Redline patiently rebuilt the hands from struts out, the face from inside out, sculpting the helmet to the nearest approximation of what the mech’s own scant memories showed. 

He still couldn’t imagine such a cruelty that would do this.


	3. Chapter 3

“How do you feel?”

Wing’s gentle voice floated through the sterile medbay room but it caused no visible reaction from the huddled frame that sat on the berth. Drift obsessively touched digit to digit, one by one, curling them and stroking one on the other, over and over again, like wanting to reassure himself that they were really there – like he did for the past joor or so. He answered only in clipped, stilted, minimal yes’s and no’s to Redline’s questions, uttered his designation with a flat tone, never lifting his helm up, away from the sight of his hands. Wing could understand it, he really did. The former Decepticon was horribly disfigured and for so long he would truly have to relearn having and using hands… not to mention the face. Redline reconstructed his helm and face to what he should have looked like, according to his own memories… and Wing had to fight down a sudden wave of totally inappropriate heat suffusing him when he first saw the mech’s new visage. The former Decepticon was… there was no two ways about it, he was gorgeous. 

“Drift…? How do you feel? Is… everything all right?”

“Ye-yes.”

Finally the elegant white helm lifted a little, pointed audials twitched and two wide, blue optics snapped to Wing’s golden ones. The face was stiff, flat, unmoving, the lipplates barely opened as Drift answered him. Redline assured Wing that it was normal at first, that the former Decepticon had not had an actual expression for… several megavorns at least, so it was like he was a sparkling again, learning expressions and emotions all over again. As far as he did not actually reject his new face, he would learn them again.

And therein lay Wing’s job. Make the mech feel again and show it. Teach an embittered, used, abused and mutilated mech to feel wind on his faceplates, a real mouth to intake energon and use true hands and digits again. Tall order. But the curiosity with which Drift continued to explore his new hands gave Wing hope. He would soon discover having a face too.

Or so the flier hoped. Those lips looked entirely too kissable.


	4. Chapter 4

Wing extended a hand towards Drift, a silent offering of a cube of energon. He had managed to coax the vary white mech to his quarters and they were now sitting on the two sides of his small table. Drift sat opposite to him hunched, hands in his lap, as the former Decepticon was still fascinated by his own digits, all his attention on the jerky movements. Wing noticed on their way here that he had problems with correctly judging distances and a few times he nearly bumped into corners and the doorframe. It would correct itself fast on its own with two optics working together now and Redline warned him not to take note of it visibly, much less tell him about it. Still, his wing twitched anxiously when Drift lifted a hesitant hand and his digits were nowhere near the cube, trying to close onto empty air… and his vents hissed an angry sound, optics narrowing in concentration and the servo slowly getting close.

Wing patiently held the cube steady and his field friendly, open and honest. He didn’t press the cube into Drift’s hands, perfectly content to allow the twitching, errant digits find it themselves and grab… or try to grab it alone. Despite Drift’s earlier fascination with the digits, now his hand opened up like those hideous claws he used to have, trying to grab the cube like pinching it between them… and hissing another curse through nearly close lipplates when the grab failed and Wing had to save the cube from being spilled. 

“Let me help…?”

Wing waited for the terse nod before his free hand gently touched the angrily fisted digits. He stroked them until the tenseness bled out and separated them from the gnarled tangle, straightening them out and touching, petting them one by one like Drift did earlier. Only when they were fully relaxed and Drift’s optics on him again, burning with a strange intensity, did he slowly nudge the cube into the cusp of his hand, gently curling the digits around it. Some of the tenseness returned when he released the cube and it was now held by him fully, but Wing flashed his most sincere, blinding smile at the white mech, happy for the tiny step on a long road, a minuscule victory in itself, showing him how to be glad for the progress. 

“Like that. See? You’re doing fine.”

Drift held the cube like it was treasure, a miracle he hadn’t expected to happen, wide optics again searching Wing’s face, slightly withdrawing at the wide, open, honest smile… but then they snapped down again to the fuel and Wing knew that it was time for the next hurdle. He reached for his own cube.


	5. Chapter 5

Holding things was not a straightforward affair at all, even after a few successes. Since Drift’s optics and spatial processor recalibrated and he unerringly found the objects he was trying to grab, his digits still kept making strange twitches and aborted jerks and the thing more often than not fell from them. For a long time still Drift needed Wing patiently curling his digits around whatever he wanted to hold and it made the former Decepticon angry, frustrated and on occasions when he was fed up, furious. Then the thing itself was forgotten and he spat insults at Wing, painfully cramping digits making threatening moves – thank Primus Redline did remove his impressive inbuilt weaponry – and he would be agitated for joors.

At times like these Wing was reminded that he used to be a Decepticon and that members of this fraction didn’t survive by being nice or harmless. Drift never actually turned against Wing or any of the Knights he encountered – Wing hoped that it was because he considered them on his side, but deep down he suspected that it was rather a feeling of being beholden, like he owed to be nice – his definition of nice – for getting back his hands and face. Not to mention being dependent on Wing still. Whichever it was, Drift has always stopped at verbal taunts and insults and for this Wing was glad; on top of all his trauma, the former Decepticon didn’t need to feel worthless, which he would surely did if Wing won over him.

But all that hesitation and inadequate movements changed when, on one orn Wing was careless enough to throw a practice sword onto the table and it clattered noisily to the ground by Drift’s left pede. Wing was just about to say sorry when the words died in his vocalizer – Drift leaned down easily and his digits unerringly wrapped themselves around the worn hilt like it was the most natural movement in the world. He straightened up holding the sword and staring at it and from his stance it was obvious that he never before used one – naturally, since his crude claws were completely unsuited for the task – but Wing knew immediately just what kind of physical therapy would work best. 

They started sparring the next orn.


	6. Chapter 6

Wing pretended not to notice the glances. When he did, as it happened at first, Drift would immediately whip his helm away, his frame language would close up tight and wouldn’t look at the jet again for joors. Wing was open with his expressions these orns, maybe even a bit exaggerated them too – he wanted Drift to watch the smiles, the frowns, the scowls and everything else on his face, but the white mech felt uncomfortable about it and perhaps ashamed; Wing still wasn’t sure what made him hide his interest and wouldn’t even tell. But he knew the white mech was watching him whenever he thought Wing was not noticing.

But he couldn’t hide the movements of those gorgeous audials; apparently they were more instinct-driven than the facial expressions and accompanied Drift’s moods with him not even noticing it. Those slender white flares were what Wing watched covertly most of the time, the way they trembled, jerked, twitched, the tip even tinted up slightly once – Wing secretly took a picture capture of that and treasured the shot more than anything. 

Unlike the audials, his faceplates were still like a mask. He was georgeous, Wing often wanted to lose himself in the sight of him and had to consciously withhold himself from touching… what touching, kissing was what he really wanted, but it was impossible on several levels – but he was beautiful in a way a statue would be, a flat, unmoving mask that never showed anything. Not even when he shouted in anger and that was truly a queer sight, made Wing shudder. Fury would radiate from all the lines of his frame, the flared plating of it, but the face… the faceplates didn’t cooperate it that. Mouth opened to barely a slit, words slurred and hissed out of it, optics blazed with blue fire… but not a single plate of his face moved otherwise.

Wing still didn’t dare to ask about the circumstances of his… empurata. All the elder Knights warned him not to and for once the young jet heeded the advice. But he knew, because Redline confided in him with this much, that it happened extremely long time ago, and more worryingly perhaps even at the time when his frame development was not fully set… meaning a mere youngling or a young adult. Wing shuddered when that thought came up every time and couldn’t imagine how mechs could be so cruel… and it didn’t bode well for his healing either. If he lost the ability for expressions so long ago, then he might not be able to relearn them again.

But those audials could move and did; and Wing watched them just as much as Drift watched his face, covert glances crisscrossing between them and connecting them on a level beyond words.


	7. Chapter 7

Clink.  
Clank.  
Swish.  
Clang.  
Ding.  
Skreeech.

“Sla…”

Thud.

Drift fell heavily, carried my his own momentum when Wing divested him of the practice sword. The weapons connections on his arms twitched, now empty, but instinct still trying to train them at the one he saw still as enemy. Especially in the middle of the fight, however practice it was.

“Slagging, primitive weaponry...”

Wing’s pealing laughter did nothing to calm the fuming mech on the ground. Drift suddenly rolled, long legs scissoring and Wing yelped as his own legs were – rather rudely - kicked out from under him.

“Whoa…?”

Another thud and a muffled oomph echoed in the training hall as the Knight went down, instinct and training making the supple form roll out the fall. Drift was up like oiled lightning and onto Wing before he finished rolling… and the jet felt a tiny flash of fear as strong, black servos gripped him with force enough to nearly dent metal, as a heavier frame pinned him down… but Drift did nothing, just shifted forward until he was lying on the jet with his full length and Wing couldn’t help but feel a tiny thread of thrill curling in his tanks, couldn’t help but notice his core warming up until it took effort not to let his vents turn on, because it was something he secretly imagined ever since he first saw the rebuilt frame of the former Decepticon…

… and he didn’t imagine it, Wing was sure when those glorious hips ground down ever so little and red plates slid on his white, the contact between them electric, magical, hot like the Pit... he bucked up slightly, intensifying the contact, immersing himself in those blue orbs over him, rather than that statue-solid mask of face, because the optics smoldered just like his own…

…but then Drift suddenly, roughly pushed himself up, scrambling to his pedes, away from the surprised Knight and over to the other side of the training ring, turning him his back, helm leaning into his hands. Wing lay there for another klik, trying to collect his swarming thoughts, his racing vents and his spark careening nearly out of control. He stood gracelessly, shaking off the conflicting emotions and approached the huddled figure slowly.

“Drift…?”

“Don’t… I see what you do! You wanna feel myself… better? It’s just a lie… all of it is a lie!”

Wing stared at the back of his neck, hesitating if he should touch the red plates. Drift’s helm was in his hands, voice muffled and he practically radiated the ‘do not touch’ vibes like he generally did – but Wing didn’t want him to withdraw into himself, not this time, when he finally came out on his own, actually initiated the contact between them, however short and little it was… and deciding to take the risk, Wing lifted a hand and gently laid it on the nearest shoulder.

“Nothing is a lie, Drift. I promise you that.”

“Ya don’t wanna look at me. I’m hideous. You don’t want me!”

Wing’s optics opened wide, nacelle pinions quivered hesitantly and it took him a few kliks to understand. Ohhh… He thought back to their orns together and realized that the former Decepticon has never even glanced into a mirror… not that the Knight had many, but Drift avoided even those. Wing gently nudged the shoulder in his hand until he and Drift moved a few steps to their left and stood there. A full length, wide mirror was on the wall, used by Knight aspirants to perfect their form and Wing for a nanoklik admired the view in it, taking a quick image capture.

“Look, ” – he nudged the red shoulder again with more insistence – “look at that. There is nothing even remotely hideous in you.”

He gently forced the black hands down until Drift had little choice but to look at the mirror.

“I find you… gorgeous. Amazing. Really! It is no lie. It’s true!”

“N-no…”

“Look at you!”

He firmly counted the hesitant hand that came up to touch his face as a success.

In a way it was. Even though now Wing had to hurriedly find another Knight for some… unresolved charge. Because he sure wasn’t pressuring Drift into something he wasn’t fully comfortable with – and despite of starting the whole thing, he wasn’t. Why, Wing wasn’t sure, but he could guess and it wasn’t nice. A mech like Drift was would be shunned by others, certainly not chosen as partner, not even for just interfacing. But he would have the urges, he would have the lust. He was a speedster, the frame-type high-strung and famous for having a libido next to only Seekers. How he managed it in a rough army like the Decepticons, Wing didn’t know and wasn’t sure he would want to.

“Don’t call yourself like that. Ever. Please.”


	8. Chapter 8

Wing wasn’t sure what was what brought him out of deep, sound recharge. His rooms were silent and dark, with the faint lights of the city twinkling through his windows, from below the balcony, painting abstract shapes on his ceiling. In sleepless nights he often followed the faint, colourful lines and spots until the hypnotic, ever-repeating movement rocked him back to recharge. But there weren’t any new reflections, any strange, new spots of light on it now to wake him up and the silence of the room gave no answer to Wing either. The Knight listened to the near-complete silence, identifying the small sounds that broke it one by one… and… there it was. 

The tiny scrapes were so quiet they almost got lost over the whispers of his own systems – if Wing hadn’t been trained to take apart noise and listen to the sounds one by one, he might have missed them. The little noises came from his washracks and since the city had no rodent problem it could mean only one source: Drift. The mech moved almost as silently as Wing himself and without the specialized training, on sheer talent and instincts honed by megavorns of the most brutal survival imaginable. Still, in the near complete silence of the night Wing could catch the soft scratch of pedes, the tiny pitch of an engine as he moved, the barest creak of a joint low on lubrication… 

Wing gave Drift all the privacy he could think of while caring for him and so he didn’t want to confront the mech over going to the washracks in the middle of the night. But he was curious what could it be that made the former Decepticon visit the place at such an unlikely time. Even after ardent eavesdropping for some breems, Wing couldn’t hear the patter of solvent or the soft scrapes of a cloth, so Drift washing himself was unlikely. The noises continued to be tiny, minuscule, barely there, like the mech was just… standing there lost in his thoughts?

Wing’s curiosity rose up like a wave, encompassing him completely. He rose from his berth silently, creeping through the room with caution – if Drift was so good at not making a lot of noise, he must be equally good at picking up another mech coming up on him – and Wing still didn’t want him to discover that the Knight was sneaking after him, didn’t want to confront him over what was probably nothing and set back the fragile trust that was just starting to grow between them…

Inch by cautious inch Wing crept closer to the washrack door and he was even more careful to stick his helm around the edge to look inside. The white-tiled room’s main lighting was off, only the small lamp over the mirror cast a cone of warm light into the darkness, Drift’s frame cutting a sharp silhouette into it. Wing froze where he stood and let a smile sneak onto his lips, its warmth suffuse his spark.

Drift was oblivious of his presence, thank Primus, and all his attention was on the mirror. White helm nodded to one side and then to the other, pointed finials dipped and rose… and his hand was by one fine, chiselled cheek, the tips of his digits barely touching, following the lines with them as well as his intent, focused optics. Wing slid back behind the doorframe slowly, even more careful now not to disturb Drift in his road of self-discovery, though he wanted to shout joyously and laugh at the breakthrough, maybe toast it with high grade or… with some truly heroic effort, the Knight brought his exuberant joy under control and cast one more glance on the former Decepticon, discovering his face again… and stepped back, snuck silently back to his room, into his bed, where he listened joyously to tiny noises for over a joor before Drift too sneaked back to his own berth.

Nothing happened the next morning, nothing was mentioned, no celebration ensued – though Wing was sure he deserved some sort of a medal for self-restraint and tact – but they both felt that something did change, a breakthrough of a sort was achieved. Drift continued his secret treks to the washracks at nights, Wing smiled a lot and showed him plenty of examples in facial expressions, mainly enthusiastic ones and was occasionally rewarded by what was more of a facial tic than a real gesture, but he would take it over the frozen mask any orn.


	9. Chapter 9

Axe made that mistake exactly once. After that, after the commotion quieted and the ruins – some literal and a lot of metaphorical ones – were picked up, frayed nerves got smoothed by still-nervous partners and friends… after that nomech repeated it or even tried to. Mechs, who had so far looked at Drift with curiosity, disdain, more or less pity or just some sympathy as their temperaments dictated, were now giving the white mech a wide berth. Even the Knights. It wasn’t exactly fear, it certainly wasn’t revulsion, but it certainly had elements of both.

Wing for his part was still the only person Drift let close and from that event on the young Knight knew just how much of a privilege that was and how he should never abuse the trust Drift had in him. Axe, for his part was more deeply embarrassed than any sort of hurt – he was not only Knight, but a good size bigger than the former Decepticon too - but he didn’t even try to get closer to Drift than the width of Wing’s quarters if he had to speak with the young Knight. And Drift was still growling at him in that still-disturbing way, with his faceplates masklike and unmoving, but every other line of his frame, every flared piece of armour expressing clearly what he would like to do with the elder Knight. 

No, Axe, didn’t fear Drift. He didn’t even fear for innocent bystanders – there were only Knights around in the Citadel, observing Drift, keeping an optic or two at him… and keeping their servos to themselves. Axe, even Dai Atlas knew that Drift’s reaction, extreme as it was and causing more disturbance in the Citadel than anything since its foundation, was not only justified, but expectable, and if anymech, it was Axe himself to be blamed. The large mech has always had these softer, creator reflexes towards Wing and the young Knight never resented his displays of affection…

… but turning that to Drift too, and the friendly patting of his cheek while the former Decepticon still had the training swords in his hands was a mistake. A big one, Axe admitted later when he was sipping some rare high-grade with the secretly smirking Dai Atlas, while Redline patched the cuts on him, but he did that all the time with Wing and it came automatically, seeing the two of them so cute together… Apparently boiling rage, plus a former Decepticon’s battle instincts was enough to overcome the inadequate training swords and the Knight’s defences. Axe saw it significant that Drift never turned his rage against Wing; instead after demolishing half the training room, he went on a rampage in the citadel until his anger spent and the gathering Knights have disarmed him and brought him down with a mild sedative. 

Wing snickered at the sheepish expression on Axe’s face, thanked Dai Atlas that the only consequence was that he had to help collect the broken pieces and rubbish – and went back to his rooms to an also embarrassed ball of a mech huddling on his berth with his field flickering between guilt, anger and tired satisfaction, his armour halfway between angry flaring and defensive tightness and expressive finials blushing a bright pink. His red shoulder-guard twitched when Wing put a hand on it, but he didn’t move away, other than letting the Knight sit beside him. His voice was low, growling, just a bit uneasy.

“How much trouble am I in?”

Wing laughed, open and honest, bumping his shoulder nacelle to Drift’s spaulder, letting his field show that the joke wasn’t on him, but with him and answered, chortling lightly. He successfully ignored the masklike face and that it was the thing that caused the whole accident and focused on Drift’s adorably blushing finials.

“None at all. Axe won’t touch you again, he promises. Even Dai knows he shouldn’t have done it.”

Drift nodded and his tightly clamped armour loosened a little, the pink started to dissipate from his finials and the light plates of his face. He was still stiff and embarrassed, but he accepted Wing comforting him wordlessly. They sat there quietly for joors.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: self-service (sticky)

The night cycles weren’t much easier sometimes than the light ones. Wing knew that Drift occasionally had nightmares, and at first he was worried by muffled, growled sounds and random jerks – but Drift apparently had some kind of a failsafe he had employed that woke him up if it went on for more than a breem or became stronger. On these occasions, the growls and rising sounds of trashing were cut off suddenly, followed by heavy venting and then silence. Sometimes the nightmare turned into something else on its own and the failsafe wasn’t necessary and Wing, who had run to the other mech’s room at the sounds tiptoed back to his own and tried to convince his speeding spark to calm down and to go back to recharge. 

It started similarly this night too. Wing half woken up at the first groans and lifted a sleepy helm from his berth, optics half-lit and wings barely twitching behind. He listened to the muffled sounds for a tired, sleepy breem and when they started to quieten down the young Knight has put his helm back on the pillow, his systems already cycling down again. He was really tired this time, after a long, busy and complicated day cycle and it didn’t take long to convince himself that Drift was all right and he could go back to recharge. Silence ruled the semi-darkness of the room, the faint lights from the Citadel highlighting the silhouette of Wing’s things around. The earlier sounds disturbed it only a little and as they died down the blanket of the night slowly spread out again, encompassing the two sleeping forms, softening the hard surfaces into soft outlines, caressing them into sleep… Wing slowly sank back into the interrupted dream, something silly with lots of laughing and flying in it.

Drift’s servos started to move again, up and down on the berth, convulsively, open palmed at first, sliding softly on the berth padding, but soon his digits curled and cables tightened and he gripped into the berth cover clawlike, stretching the soft material until it tore with a soft screech. But he didn’t wake up yet, instead rolled to his side and curled up, his digits left the padding and started to knead his own thigh mindlessly. The soft sounds turned from growling into a deep, nearly subsonic purr as the digits found the thigh seam and dipped in, massaging the sensitive cables there. The other servo moved too, rubbing the upper edge of the spike panel that quickly started to heat up. As the rising arousal registered a pair of optics opened to a dimply lit slit as Drift slowly rose from deep recharge into a halfway online but still quite dreamlike state. 

His purr slowly increased and seeking out the pleasant sensations further, Drift rubbed his faceplates on the smooth, silky bedding in an unconscious need to be petted, cuddled and be touched by gentle things – things he never experienced but had always craved for deep down. Never while online, he had known that. Never while others were around he had learned that too. Only when he felt safe, when he was alone and hazy, pleasant dreams stole the steel control he kept on such _weak_ feelings. His claws were unable to give him anything better than a rough grip, they were much too crude for such niceties… but the hands he had now could touch with a much gentler, far more pleasurable way. And the bed cover was really nice too, smooth on his plating, like a gentle touch... His panel was open in no time, spike pressurizing fast as the servo slid onto its length and it was far-far better than his claws used to be, almost too much for his spike that was used to the rough and hard pincers for so long. He didn’t quite remember having real hands – the factual memory of them was there, but no actual feeling accompanied them, so it was like nothing he ever experienced. Certainly nothing like any of the Decepticons gave him either.

Drift groaned louder and panted at the strong sensations. No pain or accidental hurt mixed into the pleasure now, nothing that would mar him the feeling like a crude claw pinching the sensitive surface or a rough grab that fired pain signals into pleasant haze. An agile, firm but soft servo that still felt a bit like belonging to somemech else slid on the hardened metal and spread the lubricant from the tip to the shaft with digits that were so much better at it than the claws. The rising heat-charge was exquisite, it was amazing, it was almost too good and Drift slowed down for a klik as his processor remembered, as it had learned a long time ago that good things always had a price. He forced it out of his processor now, but disabled his vocalizer… just in case. As long as Wing didn’t hear him, nomech should know what he was doing – it wasn’t a soldiers’ barrack with nonexistent privacy and rough mechs who would either take advantage of him or use it as blackmail against him.

His servo moved faster now, heat and friction creating an incredible sensation in the spike sensors, swamping his processor with so much pleasure Drift felt like drowning in them. His charge built much faster too than usual and the white frame jerked and twitched on the berth as random cables tightened up and random components spat sparks. Conscious thoughts were nearly gone in a daze and Drift gladly submerged into the pleasure, one hand still jerkily moving on his spike, the other dug deep in the sensitive tight seam he had always used to get off, sometimes even more so than his spike. He gave no sounds, since he disabled his vocalizer – but he didn’t think of his vents nearly roaring to dispel heat, that had long awakened Wing in the next room.

At last his back bowed backwards and his helm was thrown back as the charge crested – a silent roar stayed within open lipplates as transfluid splattered all over the berth and Drift twitched through several aftershocks that signalled a hard overload. He vented great gulps of air for kliks before his frame could finally slump back on trembling muscles and it was another breem before he could pull up and unclench his servos too. For a few breems he simply basked in the afterglow and refused to move. He just felt so amazing and it wasn’t marred by anything, it was a rare perfect satisfaction he didn’t remember ever having before and he wanted to stay in it, bask in it, enjoy while it lasted. 

But nothing lasts forever and Drift know this through hard lessons that got carved in deep. Soon he sat up quietly and fumbled for a rag to clean up his mess from the berth and his hand. As he was wiping his digits clean, Drift suddenly realized how loud his vents were still and froze. There was no way Wing didn’t hear it, absolutely none. Nomech not deaf could miss it. Blue optics widened and Drift froze, his gaze drawn to the doorway, expecting a winged frame to stand there and… he couldn’t imagine what the Knight would do or say, he had not known these mechs long enough to know their reactions… and if he was honest with himself, he wanted to believe them, believe Wing that they helped him without expecting a payment, without abusing his tentative trust, against experience, against hard lessons, against the many betrayals and disappointments…

… but there was no frame standing there, only the silent darkness of the night once again. Drift blinked, processor still a bit befuddled, but clearing up rapidly. No, there was no way the Knight not hearing him. So why was he not checking on his charge? Why was he at least not enjoying the free spectacle? The cleaning cloth disappeared in subspace and Drift was on his pedes, now truly silent as he sneaked towards the Knight’s bedroom’s doorway. Peeking around the doorframe, in the faint light of the city, he saw Wing lying with limbs haphazardly thrown wide on his berth, vents as slow and deep as a mech’s should be in deep recharge. Drift blinked again a few times. It was impossible… but it had to be true. He couldn’t imagine a mech recharging so deeply, so trustingly, so… dangerously unaware of his surroundings, but there was Wing out completely and as deep in recharge as he had never seen a mech. He sneaked back to his room after casting a last glance on the Knight, wing panels fluttering slowly by the rhythm of his measured vents. The worry slowly dissipating, Drift gladly sank back into recharge, now tinged with a sated, satisfied edge he rarely had.

Wing waited until Drift went back to his room and the apartment was once again silent before opening his optics and ex-venting a withheld gush of heated air, squirming with his own building charge.


	11. Chapter 11

Later, Wing wasn’t sure how it all started. They were sitting in his living room, separately as usual, Wing sprawled on the sofa and Drift sitting somewhat stiffly in the comfy armchair he liked best, lazing after the whole orn’s activities, training and Wing’s usual chores. They had energon together and later Wing broke out his stash of treats to go with the last part of the TV series they were watching. Drift loved the sweets, Wing knew, but he still treated them like they were a weakness, a decadence he shouldn’t indulge in. But his sweet denta always won in the end and they shared… yes, that’s how Drift got to move beside him on the sofa, abandoning his solitary seat for the treats. 

The film was over some time ago and Wing asked a few questions, eager to know how the former Decepticon saw and perceived the peacetime plot, the characters and Drift was uncharacteristically open, answering with full sentences, opening up like he did so rarely before and never fully… but this time, he expressed his doubts about the main character, his reactions that he couldn’t quite believe – and Wing explained how a mech who never knew war, never held a weapon, never acted or reacted with violence might think and act. It was just fiction, but it showed him a lot about life, the kind of life that existed in New Chrystal City – the Knights naturally were always ready to defend it from intruders, but most of the citizens never saw or experienced violence and consequently never considered it as a solution to problems and conflicts. War was a foreign concept to them – in fact it was so to Wing too, who could and have fought with occasional intruders, but still couldn’t envision a lifetime, millenias spent with nothing but bleak violence and killing other mechs for survival.

Drift didn’t even try to explain it to him. It was like the war was another universe, not even touching this one. Like he fell through the petrorabbit hole and found an entirely different world down there, filled with mecha and concepts totally foreign. Sometimes he even entertained the idea that it was truly a parallel world, where mecha could and did live without the need for violence. Decepticons, who cared to ponder on such issues believed that violence was the most basic nature for all mecha. That it was neither wrong or right, but a fact of nature. Their nature. Whereas the Autobots’ nature was the same, just overlaid by hypocrisy about their moral superiority, about their hate of the war they too fought willingly. 

But here, sitting on Wing’s couch, it all felt like… a dream. The war, the violence, the Functionalists, empurata, rape and cruelty… it just didn’t exist here, dissolved like the delicately spun tendrils of sugary-sweet aluminium on his glossa and it was harder and harder to remember it and keep the outer mental layer of hardened, frozen armour over his feelings. Drift could face a torturer, he could withstand punishment, he could survive any violence mecha would throw at him… but he was unarmed and defenseless in the face of compassion, kindness and selfless help. And all-too-sweet treats Wing kept feeding him. 

Consequently he wasn’t sure how to react when Wing’s gentle digits touched his servo. The soft, pliable, warm metal slid over his new appendage and on its wake he felt tingling, warmth and something he couldn’t define, much less name. But it felt good the same way energon treats felt on his glossa and it was nonthreatening the same way too, Wing’s field open, honest and advertising its friendly intent freely… so he allowed it. Drift knew that should he remove his servo from under the gently stroking digits Wing would let him and never force the issue… and so, safe with that knowledge, Drift kept it where it was, uncomfortably at first, the cables taut and ready to snatch it away if needed… but in time he noticed how they relaxed under the gentle strokes that felt so good.

Then Wing cautiously picked up his servo into both his own and continued to pet the digits, like discovering their form and material, like he has never seen them before and Drift felt the discovery together with him and the conversation slowly tapered away, the treats were forgotten as they gave themselves over to the joys and pleasures of discovery… so far Drift used his new servos, learned to hold thing, to handle things, to move them the way he intended to move, to train his processor about them as opposed to the claws he had for so long… but this was different. Wing made him aware of the form of it, the texture, the sensitivity of the tips, the firmness of the palm, the layers of sensors that conveyed temperature, pressure, touch and so much more…

… and the feel of Wing’s own servos as the digits softly slid on his armour, the shape of those dark servos that looked the same as his own but differed still in dozens of tiny details… but he had trouble to focus on those differences, because his processor unhelpfully informed him that it was inundated by indefinable feels and sensations that interfered with clear thought-processes. Drift found that he did not want Wing to stop… whatever he was doing, whatever this nicely nonsensical servo-stroking was. It simply felt good in a way he couldn’t compute. There was no reason for it to feel so good. There was no reason for this touch to be almost better than… self-service. Touch should be… dangerous, rough, uncaring. Should it not?

Absolutely no reason to trust it not to hurt him.

Still, he willingly immersed himself in the strange, but oh-so-pleasurable touch, surrendered himself not to authority but honest intentions. Wing held his servo like it was a precious jewel, a delicate treasure, not the rough tool for violence. He touched it like it as a delicate crystal flower, not a sturdy metal construct. He petted it like it was something infinitely priceless instead of a cheap body part. It was… processor-boggling. It was… illogical. It was… dangerous.

It was… good.

Wing decided that he would gladly continue his ministrations for orns for that tiny little smile that curved Drift’s lips unbidden.


	12. Chapter 12

Wing lifted a hesitant servo, digits hovering near his faceplates like nervous butterflies fluttering, trying to reach out and touch but afraid that it would result in a reaction he did not want. Drift tensed slightly, helm moving backward almost imperceptibly, field fluctuating between the will to trust and the ingrained reaction of fear. 

“You have a beautiful face…” Wing murmured, digits still hovering an inch away from the white metal while his golden optics roamed on it unbidden. 

“N-no…” – but it wasn’t a command, Wing felt, it was denial of his words and he acted so.

“It is. So… sharp and clean, so chiseled and noble…”

Wing saw the red optics widen and Drift’s field rebel in turbulent waves. He almost withdrew his digits, but decided to keep them where they were until Drift asked him to stop. Which, the Knight was careful to note, he didn’t do.

“I’ve never been a slaggin’… noble!” Elegant lipplates sneered the words, twisting into a crooked grimace.

“I didn’t say that.” – Wing projected calm to him – “But you could have been one for your looks.”

Drift hunched a little, drawing his field close, but he didn’t move away or ask Wing to stop. 

“I was constructed cold.” – he growled after a little silence, defiance twisting his field – “The lowest of the low, abandoned and discarded the klik I was made…”

Wing’s spark constricted at the quiet words and sighed at the self-loathing in them. 

“It’s not your fault…”

“But I survived. However I could.”

Drift glanced at the Knight, shame, unease and defiance warring in his optics.

“I didn’t do… nice. I did whatever it took to survive. There was nothing... noble in starving or selling my frame for a mouthful of fuel.”

Wing’s digits trembled and his field fluctuated in uneasy waves. He knew he was sheltered here, in the city, among the Knights, far away from Cybertron’s turbulent past and war-torn present. He knew mechs not always had plenty to go by and nice places to live in. He knew that noble didn’t mean good and for some it might be a grave insult. 

“I meant… I only meant that I find your face… beautiful.”

Digit tips ever so gently touched the white face and Drift didn’t flinch away, he stayed there and though his field was still uneasy, he let the Knight touch him. The tips of his audials leaned back a tiny bit and the optic shutters spiraled inward half a degree – but he remained still, with Wing’s digits gently slid on unmoving white metal, on chiseled features, on sharp dividing lines… and Wing nearly exulted when he felt the mech’s darker digits lift and brush against his audial flares. They both fell silent as they slowly explored the other. 

“Can you… can you feel it?”

Drift didn’t answer straight away, but his servo fell away from Wing’s helm. He tipped his helm to the side a tiny bit and a segment moved on his face. It was obviously a conscious move, not one dictated by emotions and Wing inhaled sharply. 

“Sort of… yes.” – he murmured at last, looking pensive – “I… remember…”

He grimaced and smiled, but the movements looked like something Wing would expect from a drone – movement, but sterile, devoid of emotions, dictated entirely by correctly moving cables and pulleys behind the metalmesh façade… but he spoke up again, low and murmuring, like lost in his memories…

“I was a buymech. The lowest of the low. Not a courtesan, not even a whore… a mech they went to when they barely had a little more credits than us but wanted a frag.”

The optics narrowed a bit and Drift sighed, tense shoulders slumping a bit.

“What was our curse was also a… kind of a protection too. The Functionalist Council wouldn’t waste empurata or shadowplay on disposables. It was unimportant that we had an opinion – and frankly most of the time we didn’t, not really, because we were simply too busy to survive.”

Wing stood there frozen, unwilling to move a single millimeter that would disturb Drift from opening up to him.

“If one of us said or did something unwise to the wrong mech… we just noticed that he disappeared suddenly and if he turned up again it was just as a melted pile of parts. Myself, I never actually found out what was it what I had said or done wrong. All I remembered was that they dragged me out of my hiding spot one dark cycle, out of recharge and then… the pain.”

Drift shrugged tersely, not even bothering to hide the distress from his field. Wing’s every iota of attention was riveted firmly on him.

“It went on for awhile. Empurata is a long process, I’m told. They did talk a bit during the procedure and sometimes I even understood their words. Then, when it was done they threw me back to the street… but not randomly. There used to be a mech… a medic, called Ratchet. He had a small clinic there and he fixed guttermechs for free. He was high caste but he still did that for us.”

Wing’s spark throbbed uncomfortably. He suspected the rest.

“They used me to send him a message. He… had fixed me up a few times, helped me to get off of drugs. They thought it was not only beneath him but suspicious. He fixed me what he could… but he had to close up the clinic shortly afterwards. Word said it was burned down twice… but it wasn’t us, nomech in the Dead End would have done that!”

Sparkbreaking as the story was, Wing still marveled how the intense distress of the memory broke through Drift’s stony façade and produced a tiny, only visible from close up twitch in his facial plates. Not that he would say so.

“Have you found him since? Told him this?”

The frozen mask was back, even to his optics. It was a bad question.

“He wouldn’t have wanted to meet me. He is an Autobot. I became a Decepticon. If he thinks of me at all, it’s probably regret for saving me.”

“But you don’t know. And.. are you still a Decepticon?”

Drift started to point to his chest where the badge used to sit… but it wasn’t included in his rebuild, so the spot was empty. He visibly hesitated.

“I’m… not sure any more.”


End file.
